


How To Get Away With Magic

by nvaleintern (orphan_account)



Category: How to Get Away with Murder, Shondaland
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Magic, Anal Sex, Angst, Crimes & Criminals, DNF, Drunk Sex, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Hurt, M/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, Smut, Suicide mention, Supernatural Elements, Teacher-Student Relationship, Violence, Young Keating Five, inappropriate sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-08-21 23:14:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8264024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/nvaleintern
Summary: --- DID NOT FINISH ---High schoolers with (accidental) homicidal tendencies should not be able to use magic. These ones, unfortunately, do. (a.k.a. a HTGAWM high school/magical coven AU)





	1. Chapter One: After

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading my fic! Just a friendly reminder that you don't need an AO3 Account in order to leave Kudos or Comments on a work you liked! I'm very happy about either. Enjoy!
> 
> I didn't finish this piece. There are about 5 more (un-edited) chapters floating around on my laptop somewhere but honestly I don't feel like posting them. Still, thanks for reading it so far.

_It's dark. That's the first thing Connor sees. The darkness of it all. Trees above them, swallowing up every inch of sky, closing off any hint of moon or stars to shine through._

_If Laurel hadn't taught him the spell, he'd be stumbling over frozen branches and dried-up leaves. Now, a little ball of green light is flying inches away from him, making everything look even more eerie than it already is. He can't quite put his finger on it but there is something wrong about forests at night. This particular night, in this particular forest for sure._

_The second thing that catches Connor's attention is how quiet everything seems._

_When they spend their free periods in these woods there's usually some bird chriping away or some wild animal making some leaves crunch under it's weight. Now it's only the deep howl of a chilly breeze accompanied by Michaela's half-swallowed sobs. She's crouched underneath a tree somewhere close, hands wrapped tightly around her legs, rocking back and forth. Connor gave her_ _his coat to cover up the ripped dress but she's still shivering. So is Connor._

_The incantation for a fire spell was floating around his head somewhere but right now he was too drained, even the little ball of light almost too much for him to handle as it flickered away, sure to dissapear in a few minutes._

_"Connor, did you find it?"_

_Laurel's voice bounces off the trees, only a whisper, but loud enough for him to hear. "_ Connor _?,"_ _she hisses._

_"Shutup," he says under his breath, hugging himself tightly. It was a mistake to leave his suit jacket inside, it is too cold, but then again he didn't have much choice in that matter. "I'm still looking."_

_"Well look harder."_

_"Aren't you the clairvoyant one? Just look for it yourself if you're gonna snap like this all the time I-"_

_"Both of you, shut it," says Wes. He's standing outside of Connor's little light bubble but Connor's pretty sure the stains on his white shirt aren't dirt. He's breathing heavily, wiping something from his forehead that makes a nasty sound when it hits the ground. That alone makes Connor's throat close up and stomach churn as he turns away, focusing on his own task. "Connor, you just keep looking, Laurel, please shut her up." He was talking about Michaela. Connor drew his hand up in a fist. He was pretty sure Laurel's also wondering when Wes got appointed Head in Charge, but he pushed that thought back for now, instead trying to put his mind to the matter at hand._

_Now that he's calmed down a bit, he allows the ball of light to grow bigger, let it hang low above the ground, looking for the watch. It has to be here somewhere. Any other possibility is simply too scary to imagine._

_Michaela's sobs have sort of faded away. Either Connor is getting away from them or Laurel finally did her job. A quick look over the shoulder tells Connor it's the latter._

_"Michaela. Michaela_ look _at me."_

_Michaela's legs are still drawn up but she let's her head rest on her knees, looking up at the other girl. "Michaela give me your hand."_

_She does as she's told. The two of them sit there in the brush, eyes locked. Laurel is using her magic, Connor could feel it in the air. The familiar smell tickling his nostrils, drawing him in. Usually, Laurel's magic is strong, prominent but like the rest of them she is running on low-battery. It's enough to calm Michaela though. Enough to snap her out of whatever state of shock she was in._

_And so, a second ball of light soon joins Connor's. Rather than his, this one is a deep blue. Now both orbs were scouting the ground, bumping into eachother from time to time, making the grass appear blue like the crystal clear sea. Branches now broken ships and insects stranded people. Still no sight of the lost treasure._

_"You're a mess," Connor whispers as a way of greeting her._

_She doesn't say anything but her mouth quirks up in a soft smile. At least they get to keep their sense of humor. After tonight's events that's nice to know._

_Some part of Connor wishes Michaela were still crying, though. Without her wails, the forest feels even more menacing, like it's weighing down on them, juding. The only sound breaking the silence, and that's only if you listen carefully enough, is the music blaring from the high school. All these people dancing and goofing off, not knowing what's going on only a few hundred feet away. Hell, what happened_ inside _. Connor doesn't even want to think about that too much, else the sounds would haunt him again. The crack of bones as -_

_"They're dead," Michaela says, somewhere between a question and a statement. She repeats herself, "They're dead." Her words have a final tone to it. The words are already gouged in stone. No turning back, magic or not._

_Before he can respond, Connor gets distracted by a terrible sound of flesh and bone being torn apart. It makes him turn around and immediately wish he hadn't. Wes and Laurel are standing over the banner the four of them grabbed from a wall in the hallway. "MIDDLETON HIGH SCHOOL PROM 2016", it initially read. The word HIGH and most of the letters in MIDDLETON are caked with blood and dirt. A few feet above there's an arm, slowly being skinned and put apart, the goo it creates dripping down. Both Wes and Laurel's lips are moving, casting something Connor doesn't even want to begin to understand. His head is pounding as it is already, the excessive use of magic over the last hours taking a toll on him._

_As the skin and bone slowly melts away, dropping onto the canvas, Connor's chest tightens, mouth turning sour. He manages to stammer out a warning to Michaela trying to spare her the view, before he doubles over, puking on the bark of the first tree he could hold onto. He hasn't eaten much all night long so all that comes out is the remains of a pizza they squeezed in before leaving, and alcohol._

_"Fuck," he says, wiping some of the liquid from the corner of his mouth. "fuckfuckfuck."_

_Michaela tugs at his shoulder, eventually turning him away from his other friends. "Hey," she barks, taking his hands into her palms, "we gotta keep looking. It's only an hour before the bonfire starts. Only one more hour. So come. On."_

_Connor checks his own watch, and just like that everything stops. He stops breathing. Michaela's lips form no words. His heart skips a beat._ No _, he thinks, trying to keep the panic at bay_ , this can't be right. _His watch is probably broken. He grabs Michaela by the wrist just to be sure. The seconds handle on her watch doesn't move._

 _Connor lets go of her hand, cursing. "Fuck, Michaela. It's broken. We don't have an hour. We have a few minutes at the most."  
A sob breaks from Michaela that she quickly tries to muffle with her hands. It rings through Connor's head, making his own head cycle. There's just too much to do. The bodies aren't gone, they lost the stupid watch and there's still the fucking trophy that needs getting taken care of. For just a split second he thinks about using_ that _spell again. If there's ever a time to lose all emotion the time was now. But when he thinks about the last time he used it, it makes him sick to his stomach even more so than this fucked up situation. And even Michaela has figured out what he thinks because she's saying, "Connor, don't. Just go, I can find it myself. Take care of the other thing." She shudders when she says 'thing', knowing damn well that the some_ thing _was actually a some_ one _. Was. Past tense. The 'things' are dead now._

_"Laurel, teach me the hex." She looks at him with her brows furrowed, mouth still working. "I'm serious. You can go take care of the trophy. I'll take over here."_

_As soon as she stops moving her lips, the goo and what's left of the arm drop to the floor, spattering on their shoes with a nasty splat. Connor swallows hard, keeping his words on the latin, trying to remember. It's only three words, but you need a certain amount of knowledge in the stuff you're planning on taking apart. Thank you Mrs. Anderson for bullying Connor into AP Bio._

_Connor takes Laurel's place opposite to Wes. Apparently you need some transmutation circle for the spell, because Wes is currently retracing one. "What will you do with it?"_

_"The less you all know about it, the better," is the only thing Laurel answers before she stomps off, dissapearing behind the trees._

_With each repetition, some sort of hum rises up inside Connor, pressing against his skin from inside out. He can take it. He has taken far worse and besides, he had not much choice._

_The last thing he hears before the hum drowns out everything else, is the music from the high school growing louder, and the first people hooting and cheering as they run out onto the football field next to the woods, much like he did the years before. Like he planned on doing tonight. It was Connor's and Michaela's turn to light it, since they're top of their senior year. Who knows if Annalise isn't looking for them right now. Let's just hope someone else is there to light it. It's time for the bonfire._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that was a mess that's been staring me down for weeks. I have some of it pre-written but it waits to go through editing. And I'm just playing the blame game but thanks to school, social life and other non-writing stuff (and extra work I've put on myself) it'll take time to update so bear with me. I'll finish it. I promise. And updating will be semi-regular (with two or three week breaks between updates depending on my motivation).I really do hope you enjoy it. Much love and have fun (esp with the new season)
> 
> And please let me know if that cursive on the After chapter is okay to read or if I should stop posting it that way. Cus I'm not a hundred per cent sure.


	2. Chapter One: Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading my fic! Just a friendly reminder that you don't need an AO3 Account in order to leave Kudos or Comments on a work you liked! I'm very happy about either. Enjoy!

_BEEP-BEEP-BEEP_

The alarm went off for the third time in the last half an hour.

_BEEP-BEEP-BEEP_

Connor's vision was still blurry, the light shining through the curtains melting together with the beige of the walls. Connor wiped at his eyes, groaning. He didn't want to wake up. He _really_ didn't want to wake up. Last night's shift at the gas station went longer than he had agreed on, something his body's gonna repay him for today, in the form of aches and general discomfort, Connor was sure. At least he was still getting paid cash for the extra hours he put in, so that minced his pain some.

A glance at the clock told Connor that they were well into first period already. Might as well take some time to really get the morning started. First thing's first: a fresh pot of coffee. Nothing a simple levitation spell couldn't do, and with some Michaela-taught incantation the water was boiling in no time, and was already cool enough to hold the mug in his hands before it even landed.

He moaned around the first sip of black, liquid goodness, waiting for it to really kick in.

Now for the more pressing matters: hair. It probably felt worse than it looked. Sure, his scruff was getting a bit too long for his taste and his hair grew a bit shaggy over the past few weeks but that could be taken care off some other time. Combs were invented for a reason, and right now Connor would gladly kiss whomever had invented them.

As he was digging the comb teeth through thick strands of hair, he could see the little light at the top of his phone blink away excitedly. Ignoring it would most likely make it worse, so he flew that thing right over and flipped his phone on. The white notification box covered his cute dogs face:

_New Messages (5) / Missed Calls (1)_

Connor knew it was Michaela. It almost always was.

_please don't miss class again Connor_

_again??_

_im not walking back to your apartment_

_i s2g im NOT_

_dick_

Connor smiled his cocky smile, letting the phone hover in mid-air. He made a mental note to pick up a donut on his way over to make it up to Michaela. She could never stay mad at him for too long, anyway. Not that it was always that way. When they first started high school the word 'nemeses' probably described their relationship best. Competing for being top of every class they had shared, one-upping eachother on their GPA scores, or seeing who could expand their resume quicker. It was a whole thing. And whilst Connor hadn't really been excelling at any of the categories – Michaela was the most dedicated person he knew and coming in second really didn't hurt his pride – but he still found comfort in the fact that, on average, he was having more sex than she had. _Especially_ for a high schooler.

On his way out, Connor went through all the motions. He took his anxiety meds, turned his key in his lock, listening for the second lock to fall into place. Then he took out a piece of chalk and carefully retraced the ward sign on top of his door. Nothing too fancy or out of his league, but you never know, right? It's nothing harmful, either. Just a simple spell to make anyone suspicious who tries to get in forget that the door was ever there and just go away. It's definitely less lethal than what Michaela has installed on the safe she keeps under her bed (Connor figures it's her vibrator box but even a shit-ton of drinks couldn't tickle that info out of her).

"Hey, Mrs. Jenkims," Connor said, winking at the old lady living in the apartment across from his. Her cats, Gretel, Jinx and Brock meowed like crazy every single night, keeping everyone in close vicinity up until the wee hours. That is until Connor's 'nice girlfriend' came along, and did her cat-whisperer magic. Mrs. Jenkims couldn't even begin to understand how right she was.

"Have a nice day, my dear."

The day sure seemed nice. It was a relatively warm morning, considering they were well into September. Birds somehow still found the time to chirp their chirpy tunes, the sun was shining and no cloud posed the looming threat of changing that any time soon.

Turning left on the next corner, Connor took a little detour. The small bakery from across the next street was selling _the best_ cream-filled donuts Connor had the pleasure to stuff his face with. And he was in need of a decent cup of coffee. His second out of a minimum of four cups a day.

He handed the cute guy behind the counter a few bucks and got a cheeky smile back in return.

The guy was tall (taller than Connor), with auburn curls pulled up in a messy bun straight out of a Zoella video, and a very, _very,_ tight-fitted shirt. "Here's your coffee-," he said, waiting for Connor to fill in the blank. Why not play along, Connor thought, simply answering. "-nice stranger."

The guy chuckled, sliding a bag of donuts over the glass counter top. "Well, I'm Brodie. My shift ends at five... If that's something you'd like to know."

Once started, he could hardly stop himself from following through with that dumb mistery shtick, so Connor just winked at Brodie, grabbed the paperbag and his cup of coffee and simply left.

Missing history class didn't turn out to be that bad. The new sub that had to fill in for Sam Keating is a pushover and people hardly get things done. It was missing English Lit that Connor was kind of scared of. Annalise Keating was a force, and probably the only teacher at Middleton with whom he had perfect attendance scores every semester.

He skidded through the halls, lowkey steering people from his path to get to the room as quickly as possible. Still, everyone was already sitting in their seats, and Annalise was writing the title of their next book on the blackboard (hint: it was "The Crucible", because every damn thing happening in your life had to somehow be reflected in mandatory-reading school novels).

Michaela shot him an annoyed look (honestly, when did she _not_?), but at the sight of the paperbag's logo she cheered up a bit.

"Mr. Walsh, thank you for gracing us with your showing up today."

"I only came late once," he said defensively.  
"And you can count on me never forgetting it. Now, why don't you start by telling me what you know about witches Mr. Walsh."

Connor tensed up in his seat, involuntarily. It was stupid. Of course nobody would assume he is a witch. As far as he was concerned, Michaela and him were one of the only people in the whole school who knew even the slightest about magic. In the meantime, a few people have raised their hands. Annalise was still staring him down. "Mr. Walsh?"

He stammered. Annoyed, Annalise looked across the whole room. "Come on, people. Hit me with the cliches. Sarah, yes?"  
"They use wands."

Connor scoffed, inwardly. That was some Harry Potter BS right there. Sure, you could use things as an outlet for your magic, or try out other knick-knack to amplify it's effects, but wands? Not really. They were just sticks.

"Witches turn people into toads, and stuff. Oh, and they have black cats, right?"  
Turning people into anything, really, needed a lot more than they show in movies. It requires knowledge in biology, and other sciences, alchemy and a shit-ton of magic. If it's not your natural-born power like it is for Michaela, then you need a whole Coven to do that. The cat thing can be true. Familiars are a nice addition, but Connor's landlord didn't allow him to hold anything bigger than a guinea pig, so he gave up on that.

"Still drawing a blank, Mr. Walsh?" Annalise's gaze seemed to see right through him. He tried his best not to break a sweat.  
"They were persecuted, and killed. And they're not real." That last bit sounded snappy.

"Well, we don't know that, do we?," Annalise asked, walking up to him. Her heels clicked against the linoleum floor with each step she took. Connor could feel his heart skip a beat. Michaela didn't even as much as turn her head to watch. "There's always _something_ supernatural and inexplicable going on somewhere." She paused, looking him up and down. Was there a glint in her eye? "But you're right. They were caught and slaughtered by the hundreds, one of the infamous examples being the witch hunts of Salem."

And just like that she went on with the lesson, leaving Connor with a heart beating faster than after a marathon and a sweaty shirt stuck to his back. Homework for tomorrow was reading and analyzing the first chapter, which meant no work for Connor. This summer he did most of the mandatory reading already.

Michaela ran up to him in the hallway, trying to keep up with his pace. "You overslept."  
"I was working."

"What the hell was that in class?"

Connor looked at her. She wore a nice dark sweater with a white collar peeking over the hem. Her pastel pink backpack was dangling from one shoulder. "I don't even know what you mean."  
"Could you _be_ any more obvious? I felt your heartbeat from two seats up."

Connor scoffed. "And I'm sure, so did everyone else. We're connected, Michaela. That's all."

The two of them became blood-bound a few months ago. Some old, Aztec ritual Connor dug out in his Nana's old journals. As one of the only 'recently' deceased members of his family line with any connection to magic, his grandmother was the biggest help Connor could get, even if it had to be from past her grave. The bond she described on one of the crinkled pages was said to strengthen the bond between witches and their magic. It was similar to the Magic of Five ritual used for Coven initiations, though by far not as effective.

"I'm sure it was nothing Michaela, just eat your damn donut."

"Jerk. Meet up at your place at 5? My parents got back home last night so it's a no-witching-zone for at least the next two weeks."

Connor stopped her in her tracks. They were at his next class and he didn't plan on walking past it only to walk back again. "I gave you a key for a reason. Feel free to use it." Michaela smiled. "Not sure about 5, though." While Annalise was giving the class the cliffs notes about Arthur Miller, Connor was toying with the idea of taking up Brodie on his offer. "And don't forget the wards!," Connor called after her, but she was already walking away, backpack swinging with her eager step.

Chemistry class was another highlight of Connor's every day. Sure, it was tiring, though mandatory if he ever planned on at least half-assing alchemy. Who made the class a whole deal more bearable was Oliver.

Kirk made them choose lab partners at the beginning of the semester, and Oliver was Connor's immediate choice. Sure, they hadn't talked much before. Or at all, actually, if you don't count the few times Connor had asked Oliver for a pen, or notes for other classes. But Oliver was one of the smartest kids in their year, and after he hit puberty and dropped the braces, he turned kind of hot, i a nerdy way.

"What's the joke of today?," Connor asked, sliding into his seat, only the three middle buttons of his lab coat closed. Kirk would give him hell for it, as usually, but Connor didn't mind. It's not like any chemicals would get on him when he's keeping up a repellant spell up.

"Why should you never trust atoms?" Oliver leaves a short pause, for emphasis. Connor pretends not to notice the way the other boy stares at his lips, or the way his adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows hard. "They make up _everything,_ " he finished, chuckling. Connor smiled, too, though that might have more to do with how Oliver's nose crinkled up slightly when he laughed.

Everyone else was cranking up their bunsen burners, so Connor did the same, turning on the little wheel to open the ventil and let the gas through. An orange flame shot up, shrinking and turning blue with each twist. "So what's new in the tech world?," Connor asked, looking at Oliver past the flame. The heat lines made the middle of Oliver's face wiggle from side to side like a tadpole tail.

Oliver just shot him a look. "I know you don't care, Connor."  
"Do, too," the boy protested.

"No. You don't. And that's okay." Oliver's hand was shaking slightly as he poured the powder into the conical flask. Connor laid his hand on top, steadying it, although he felt like that just made things worse. He felt Oliver tense up under his touch. Surely, when he'd look at Oliver right now, he'd be as red as the colour indicator sitting on their desk.

"But, uh," Oliver stammered, "if you insist, there's this new Intel core processor that-", and thus began the nerd talk.

There was really almost nothing Connor understood from it all, but he didn't care. Everything made chem class go by faster than Kirk's own slow-motion ramblings about the periodic table, or whatever it was failed chemists were talking about. And there was nothing more enticing than seeing people talk about something they're passionate about. So Connor just leaned back in his chair, eyes locked on Oliver's lips, listening.

On his way back home, Connor took the same route as this morning. He was right on time, too. The guy at Wenzel's Bakery was just flipping the sign to CLOSED. He grinned through the glass door as he saw Connor cross the street. A bell ring and one locked door later, Connor was inside.

"Glad you made it," the guy said, a perfect set of teeth meeting Connor's eyes.

Connor faked a smile, throwing his satchel and jacket on an empty chair. "We can go out back right?," Connor asked, already on his way to the door. "Unless," he said, green door pushed forward slightly, "you want an audience."

It wasn't what he wanted, not that Connor would let himself be convinced of this idea. Not in broad daylight anyway. What he wanted to do was to run his hands through that guy's hair as he was kissing him, so that's what they did.

The guy – Brodie, Connor remembers faintly - Brodie grabbed Connor's ass through his black jeans, heaving him on top of the electric stove. Connor's legs immediately wrapped themselves around Brodie's waist, like ropes, trying to pull him in closer, holding him in place as Connor bit his earlobe.

Belts were unbuckled, pants pulled down, and soon enough Connor found himself bent over that same stove, groin pressed hard against the metal handle of the oven. Buttons were jabbed uncomfortably against his hipbone, but Connor let the feeling of Brodie wash over himself, letting out soft whimpers with each thrust.

After Brodie finally came, groaning into Connor's ear like some kicked puppy, he at least had the decency to jerk Connor off until he came into the man's palm, cum spilling from between his fingers onto the kitchen floor.

"Now I'm a bit concerned about those donuts from before," Connor joked after all of it was said and done. He noticed that his shirt was on the wrong way round but he didn't bother fixing it right now. Brodie didn't even bother with putting on his clothes, except for his briefs and socks. Connor did not complain. Although he wanted to get out of Wenzel's right about now. Awkward, post-coital chit-chat was not his specialty and he didn't plan on changing that any time soon.

Brodie bent down to wipe up the cum droplets with a paper towel he threw into the trash. A perfect score. Connor wandered if he played basketball, but he didn't care long enough to ask. "It's not like it happens all the time."

"I bet that's what you say to all the guys." Connor winked, although he meant what he said.

Brodie's only response was a chuckle and a clap on Connor's back. Good talking.

_5:45 p.m._

If Michaela was there, she wasn't waiting for Connor too long. Not for Connor Walsh standards, anyway. Mrs. Jenkims was just walking out of the building when Connor arrived. "Long day at school?," she asked in her soft voice. Her hair, or what was left of it, was done up in pretty gray curls, and her smile was as bright as on the photos she showed him once. It was after she had baked cookies for her grand kid’s school thing, said she had too many, though Connor was sure he deprived the little kid of at least a whole batch of mint chocolate chip cookies.

"You bet it was." Connor leaned down to scratch little Gretel behind the ear. The cat squinted, purring contently. "Don't stay out too late, Mrs. Jenkims, it's getting real chilly."

He took the stairs by twos, running up to his floor. A few simple finger-snaps deactivated the wards before he even reached for the handle, but only for long enough for him to go through the door.

"I know I'm late," Connor started before Michaela could say anything, "You should be pretty used to that by now."  
"Connor, it's okay."

Michaela was sitting on his couch, one of the folders full of print-outs resting on her lap. It was flipped to a weird doodle Connor tried to trace according to the instructions, though wiccacademy.tumblr.com didn't sound like the most reliable source for real spells. It took Connor a second to notice that there was somebody else in the room, beside Michaela. The other girl was flipping through the first grimoire Michaela and him put together, if you even want to call it that. The spells in there were even worse than the ones they're working with now. If Connor remembers correctly, not even half of the scribbles were able to do anything. For some reason, the girl felt familiar. Her brown hair falling past her shoulders, over the dark-blue sweater. A crease between her brows as her eyes skimmed the page over and over again.

"Who are you?," he asked, but the girl kept on reading. "Michaela, who is she?"

Michaela opened her mouth but before she could utter a word, the girl looked up, answering herself. "I'm Laurel. Castillo. You're Connor, I know. I also know you live on your own because your mo- no, because your _dad_ hurt you-" Connor felt a heat wave rush over him instantly. The scarf that offered warmth and comfort only seconds ago suddenly felt like a snake, chocking the last breath from him. His palms were already starting to get clammy as he threw the piece of cloth to the side. "What the fuck Michaela? Why would you tell her that?"

Michaela's lips were pursed in a tight line. "That's the thing, Connor. I didn't tell her."

*

Michaela bit down on the donut, enjoying the way the icing and dough mixed and melted in her mouth. Connor was yelling after her, some warning about the wards. She scoffed. _She_ was the one who showed him how to put them up, she sure as hell knew how to get rid of them, too.

Seriously, Connor should get a grip. She couldn't come up with endless excuses for him. There are just that many doctor's appointments, or family affairs one can have in a month, before anyone starts to notice something's up. At this point, there's probably no teacher at Middleton who'd believe anything that comes out of Connor's mouth, if it weren't seconded by Michaela. Being a teacher's pet _had_ it's privileges.

With one hand wrapped around the scrap of what once was a donut and the other scanning through her notes for her next class (German with Frau Steig), running into a guy was practically inevitable. Still, when it happened, food and papers flying to the ground all the same, Michaela still gasped, before barking out an angry, "Watch out, jerk."

Careful not to hike up her skirt, she crouched down slowly to pick up her things. To her surprise, the guy did the same, crinkling some of them in the process, but she tried real hard to ignore that for now. Michaela took her time inhaling, and exhaling, quickly going through a list why she shouldn't snap at the guy again. It was the thought that counted, she guessed? There's no damage to her perfect notes that can't be fixed with a little spell. Besides, the guy had the grayest, mesmerizing eyes she has seen in a while. They definitely took the edge off.

"I'm sorry," he said, handing her the folder. "Even though _you_ didn't look where you were going."  
"What did you just say?"

"Nothing," he mumbled, "I'm Levi." His outstretched hand was met with cold air. Even if she wanted to shake it, both of hers were busy holding stuff. Trying to act casual about Michaela's disinterest, or at least shown disinterest, he used the same hand to scratch his neck. "Well-"  
"I gotta run," Michaela blurted out, "and maybe you should run less."

And with that she half-jogged to Steig's class. No boy will ever mess up her perfect attendance record. Not even Aiden, who once tried to schedule a brunch with his parents during afternoon classes. Just as the bell rang, Michaela burst through the door. People gave her weird looks, and a strand of hair was stuck to the corner of her mouth but she was there, and Steig was not in sight. "Yes," she whispered to herself, celebrating her little victory against time. If only Hermione's little time necklace-thing weren't a work of fiction. Oh, the things Michaela would do...

At the front of the class, she was about to slide into her usual unassigned-assigned seat only to find a dark-haired girl in a blue oversized sweater leafing through some book. She kindly tapped her on a shoulder, more forcefully so after it didn't work the first time. "Excuse me?" The girl looked up with pretty blue eyes. She tilted her head as if to ask what the problem was. "That's _my_ seat." Michaela pointed to the wooden desk, as if that weren't clear to the both of them.

"Oh," the girl stood up, packing up her things, "I'm sorry. I'm kind of new here, I didn't know." She put her book on the desk next to Michaela's.

"Kind of?" Stein was probably running late, so there was no harm to start a conversation.

"I'm Laurel Castillo. I was here the last year but I had to re-sit, and now I'm still trying to catch up on everything."

For some reason the name sounded familiar. Michaela couldn't quite place her finger on it, but she would soon. "I could help if you want?" The words stumbled out before Michaela could even think of the work she just agreed to do. There was just something about Laurel. And Michaela was a people-pleaser.

"Really? That'd be great, actually."

"I have a free period after this."  
"Me too."

"Then it's a date," Michaela announced, cheerfully, just as Steig sat down in her seat. The wooded chair creaked under the woman's weight, as she greeted the class with a gruff " _Guten Morgen._ " As someone in the first row Michaela wasn't only bestowed with great, German knowledge but had to endure the strong smell of coffee breath coming from her teacher. It was horrible, but she'd kill for a cup right now.  
"We can get coffee on our way to the library, if you want," Laurel offered in a half-whisper as they were ordered to open the books on chapter three.

For some reason, Laurel's words made Michaela's spine tingle as she shifted in her seat. Was it weird for Laurel to say that right when Michaela thought of it? Sure. Did Michaela believe it was only a coincidence? Maybe. But what life has taught her over the last year was also that magic rarely allowed coincidence. Laurel Castillo? Definitely a priority on her 'To Stalk' list.

 

Laurel took a sip of her coffee, eyes closed in content. "That's nice."

"Best coffee there is," Michaela agreed, putting her cup down on the table.

The weird tingly feeling from class hasn't left her. It got stronger somehow, humming through the bones in her spine, rattling every vertebrae. Michaela tried her best to hide her discomfort, but she couldn't help sitting up a bit too straight.

"Is everything alright?," Laurel asked. There was a glint in her eye as she posed the question. Almost like someone who's in on a joke. An insider who doesn't want to spill just yet.

"I just didn't get much sleep last night, that's all."  
"Busy studying Latin?" Michaela shot Laurel a look. Now _that_ was suspicious. Before she could press any more, Laurel dropped her head, a tangle of brown hair covering her steaming cup. "Okay, I'm sorry, I can't do this. I wanted to do this slowly and carefully, you know in case you're not it, but I just can't do it. You're a witch," she stated, meeting Michaela's eyes. The other girl was so dumbfounded by the 180 of this conversation that she didn't know what to say, so for a moment, she just sipped her coffee, considering her options.

"And that's fine," Laurel continued after she probably realized Michaela wasn't going to say anything more anytime soon. "I'm one too," she whispered, leaning closer to Michaela, her body almost covering the entirety of the small table. Michaela could smell the sweet scent of Laurel's rose-y perfume, could see the slight glint of lip balm on her lips. "I'm Clairvoyant, Michaela. That's how I found out about you. And the coffee-"  
"And that it was my seat that you sat on. You did it on purpose."

Laurel nodded. "I did it, so we could talk. I even emitted magic strong enough for you to feel."  
Michaela slouched her back. "Is that what makes me feel so funny."  
"Well that, and the Grimoires in the library. There are some at our school, but I didn't manage to locate any yet. I tried before but I-" Laurel checked her watch. "I think we need to get going."  
Michaela cocked an eyebrow. How did she end up here? Sure, magic threw curve-balls at her for the past couple of months but it never hit her straight in the face like that. And who was Laurel anyway to think she could order around Michaela like that. "And we need to go when and where and why exactly?"  
"If you want to be home before your friend is, we need to go now, my car's not the best." She took a jumble of keys from her purse, her chair scratching the wooden floor as she stood up. "Are you up for it?"  


"What do you want with us anyway?" Michaela asked, playing around with the dial, trying to find a decent radio station, or _any_ radio station that wasn't just white noise. "And why haven't I seen you at school before?" So many questions were burning holes in Michaela's mind, she didn't even know how to prioritize them.

Laurel's convertible was chocking out dangerously sounding noises once in a while, but once they hit the main road it was pretty much smooth sailing. Michaela figured they would be on time, whenever on time turned out to be. "I was put in an institution for mentally ill people," Laurel said, keeping her eyes on the road. "When I first started- testing my boundaries, my parents thought it was schizophrenia, that I suffered some sort of mental break. It was an easy way to excuse my powers for an illness. Something they could cure. _Abuela_ tried to explain it to them but she was stored away in some assisted living home until she-"

Michaela put a hand on top of Laurel's, gripping the stick-shift tightly. She heard more than Laurel owed her. It was a horrible thing her parents had put her through, and it was something Michaela had dreaded for months before finally coming clean to her parents. Apparently the Pratt family had a strong link to witch colonies, dating back to Salem itself. Michaela's mother had detected her child's peculiarities early on and made it her duty to teach her how to control them. As the hit cartoon show _The Legend of Aang_ has shown, it's not easy to be in control of all the elements. Add to that the ability to mix them into whatever you want and a toddler-aged human, and you've got yourself a recipe for destruction.

"So one night," Laurel continued, shaking Michaela's hand off to grab the steering wheel again, "I was high on pain-killers and other meds concoctions when my great-grandpa showed up-"  
"You can speak to the dead?," Michaela asked, terrified.  
"Well, I could then, but I guess it was just the meds. He saved me from this," Laurel pulled up a sleeve to show Michaela a thick and deep scar. "Now that was hell to explain to the doctors," Laurel laughed, blue sleeve covering the skin again. "That's how I ended up with weekly counselor sessions."  
"You're A to K so- you've got hot Frank."  
That made Laurel laugh only harder. "Gullible Frank, also. My stay at Latrey's taught me how to control my magic better. My only goal when I came out was to find you, and learn."

Laurel parked the car under a small tree, near a puddle. In no time, the puddle turned to steam and Michaela was able to step outside, shoes unscathed by the dirty water. A _lot_ of stairs and a few wards later, she welcomed Laurel into Connor's home. Dirty, if she might add, but she didn't because he wasn't there to hear it.

"Want another cup?," Michaela asked, pointing to the coffee machine in the corner of the kitchen counter.  
"I don't think I'd sleep after another one."  
"Right," Michaela muttered, throwing a shirt into the hamper, "I forgot some people don't cram for exams every day."  
"Exams? We have at least three more weeks before the first ones start."

"Exactly!," Michaela said, sitting down on a semi-clean spot on the couch, right next to Laurel. From everything to books to weird comics she could pick up, Laurel grabbed a self-made grimoire, and the first one Michaela and Connor ever made. It wasn't more than a stack of fifty or so print-outs, and there was a Denny's napkin with scribble on it, glued in somewhere. "It's just small levitation and fix-up spells, nothing fancy."

"That's actually pretty impressive," Laurel mumbles into her hand, reading word for word like holy scripture, the Apostle in question here being some seedy tumblr user with a weirdly sexual name.

Michaela grabbed their improved, WIP grimoire, flipping it to some Greek spell. The gist of it was self-lubrication, which painted a way too vivid picture in Michaela's mind, making her open it on another page. What seemed like hours of spell-talk ( most of it being 'Does this work?', followed by a 'yes' or 'no', or 'you don't even want to know's).

Eventually, Connor got home, though. His hair was messed up on one side, and his cheeks had a red flush to them that did not indicate running. Michaela left it up to interpretation. She decided a long time ago, that whatever Connor got up to in his free time was none of her business as long as he was treated right and stayed safe ( she even set up alarms that would remind Connor to get tested every six months ).

Before-hand, Michaela and Laurel decided that the quickest way to fill Connor in would be to give him a taste of Laurel's medicine, but that was before Michaela knew how bitter Laurel would make it for Connor. If there were a list of 'touchy subjects Connor does not want to talk about', Laurel ticked off at least the top 3. The panic and hurt in Connor's eyes, as he assumed what the words had meant, hurt Michaela in return, so she tried to explain, as quickly as possible.  
"What do you mean you didn't tell her?," Connor threw his brown bag into a corner, mussing up his hair even more as he ran a hand through it.

"She's one of us," Michaela said, "A witch. A _clairvoyant_ witch. That's how she knew, Con. She wanted to talk to us about something."

Connor poured himself a shot of tequila, only to decide that's not enough and take a swig straight from the bottle instead. His face came away, distorted in a grimace as he coughed up. "So?"

"Laurel said there are others at school. You know what that means, right?" Connor shrugged, so Michaela continued. "We can form our Coven."

At that he laughed, bitterly. "Right. Next thing you know we walk down the school hallways, wearing matching outfits and singing cumbaya. What the fuck, Michaela?"  
Michaela sighed, readying herself for another blow, but Laurel put down the folder and for the second time that day, met Connor's eyes. The knuckles around the bottle turned white and his chin clenched and unclenched, but otherwise, Connor stayed quiet. Waiting. "Look, I'm sorry to have poked where it stings. Trust me, I get it. Sometimes I forget myself. But all this aside for now, you got to admit, forming a Coven doesn't sound that bad?"

It didn't, Michaela knew. The two of them had talked about it so much. Going away to college, to some bigger city, somewhere where they could find like-minded people, somewhere where the sun would finally allow them to grow. Ever since they found Nana Walsh's journals, and read her entries, over bad take-away and cheap drinks, they dreamt of this. And now that it was in arms reach.  
"But doing it with strangers?"  
Michaela snorted. "Isn't that kind of hypocritical of you, Connor?"

"Shutup."

"Come on, Connor, just think of the possibilities."  
Michaela knew that he did, probably the minute he heard her say the words. She knew how much he longed for power, all the powers at his disposal. She hoped, expected. And when he said it, she already knew. "Let's do it."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna try to update more frequently, but hope it's fine. (I'm scared for the winter finale, please distract me with nice/smutty prompts on dogphood.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter Two: After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading my fic! Just a friendly reminder that you don't need an AO3 Account in order to leave Kudos or Comments on a work you liked! I'm very happy about either. Enjoy!

_Laurel walks past the trees. No. She runs past them, twigs and branches snapping, making way for her. It's too much magic, she knows as much. If not for the potion Bonnie had cooked up for her, she'd probably be long on her knees, gasping for air. Instead, she's out on the football field, standing right behind the big mess of wooden logs and sticks, the high school mascot crowning the top, ready to be set ablaze. It always seemed like a rather fucked-up tradition to Laurel. Let's celebrate our team spirit and our victories by literally burning the symbol of our own school to the ground. Then again, if there's one thing Laurel learned during her research post-loony bin, it's that belief is a strong feeling. Gather enough people and make them put their faith into a specific ritual and you just might end up sucking up enough magic for it to work. And lo and behold, Middleton hasn't lost a single game in almost three years now._

_People are already gaining on her. A group of freshmen is almost there, running toward her with two front-men holding torches. Their faces shimmer like bloody masks as they try to keep up with the rest of the students. Laurel looks back into the woods one last time, the knot in her stomach tying up even harder. If Wes and Connor don't finish up quickly enough, they won't make it to the fire and then their whole alibi will_ literally _go up in flames. And Laurel be damned if all that goo-turning was for no good._ The goo...

_The music is getting louder now, she can hear people's voices, slurred singing. Quickly, she looks for any signs of_ it _on her body. It's hard to distinguish what's mud and what's not, so she flicks it all from her shoes and dress, the brown-ish clump shooting somewhere into the bonfire. Just in time, as well. The two guys, she doesn't know their names but they're football buddies of Asher's, carefully throw the torches into the pile. An expectant hush has spread through he drunken crowds as everyone is patiently waiting for the first spark to spread. Flames lick their way up, veins of red stretching through the fire until they all meet again at the mascot's feet. Hoots and cheers erupt and somebody turns on the music again – everyone back to what they were doing before, Laurel included._

_Laurel tries hard not to look at the mascot. She tries hard not to draw a comparison between it's plastic fur melting off it's plastic face and- she swallows down a chuckle. Bites back the tears that are burning at her eye sockets. The whole way is a blur, really. At some point somebody spilled their drink on her dress, Laurel can feel the damp spot between her shoulder blades. The slow trickle of cold beverage grounds her, makes her feel like she's still there, because everything else sure doesn't feel like it. Not even the trophy, bite-sized, compressed into nothing bigger than an earring, digging into her palm. That's the last spell for tonight, she knows as much, and so she pushed on forward. About to push through the dark-green double-door into the building, a familiar voice calls after her, stopping her in her tracks. "Laurel! Hey, Castillo, it's me-"_

_Laurel turns around, one of her most convincing fake-smiles plastered on her face. Christmases and Thanksgiving Dinners at her parents place taught her at least that much. Practice makes perfect and all that. "Asher," She can't even focus on him, or what he's wearing. Still she reaches out to run her hands over his tie. It feels like nothing under her fingertips. "Nice tie. Enjoying yourself?"_ You need to go _a voice tells her, but she pushes it away._ At least make the death mean something and get away with it. Go! _This time it drowns out everything else, almost knocking Laurel off her feet. Asher doesn't notice. His arm is already snaking it's way over Laurel's shoulder, pulling her closer to him. Asher's breath smells like cheap vodka and Doritos but for the moment, Laurel is glad to get the support, even if it means having to endure his odor. "Where's the rest of our little Scooby Gang?," he puts his other hand up to his face, covering his mouth theatrically. "Witching something out? Hope not. Wouldn't be fair to leave your man hanging."_

_Laurel sighs. She would love to tell Asher how wrong he is but she doesn't have the energy to argue. The statue is weighing her down, cutting off inch after inch until Laurel's magic is walking on bloody stumps, barely holding up. She needs to go. "Listen, Ash, it's girl trouble, okay. I need to," she points toward the door._

_He twitches. Asher actually, physically, twitches, before he carefully retracts his arm from around Laurel. Then he proceeds to take a step back and look her up and down, with a grimace on his face. "Ew, dude," he says, not even trying to hide the disgust in his voice, "TMI. I will save you a drink, though. To ease the pain and all." And with that, he walks away, still muttering something under his breath._

_Finally, Laurel pushes the door to Middleton open. There's not many people left inside the building, not when the fire is just starting. Everyone's too excited to see it all go up in flames. If they're so keen to watch something burn down, they just might as well watch Connor, Michaela, Wes and her lives, there'd be no difference. It's going to go to shit, eventually. Laurel can feel it in her gut, though she's not sure if it's a premonition or just common sense._

_Without even thinking, she's taking other routes. Ways that take longer. Stairs in the opposite direction of where it happened. It's like her mind is trying to shield her from trauma, pushing her out of the way of inevitable confrontation with what happened. With what they did._

_Strangely, she ends up in front of Frank's office even though she was at Michaela's locker only seconds ago. His door is ajar, just as Michaela and her left it. There's light coming from inside. Light they did not turn on, which means Frank's there, or somebody, at least. She knocks, waiting. A groan is all that comes out in response. Good enough for Laurel._

_Frank is sitting in his usual spot, sunken into the couch reserved for his patients and troubled teens. A place he invited her to sit, the first time she visited his office. A safe haven for most nights, too, a toxic one it was._

_A glass is dangling in Frank's hand and a half-empty bottle of whiskey stands on top of his desk, unscrewed. Add some ice to it and you might call this Frank's go-to medicine to any of his and Laurel's fights._

_"Laurel, what''re you doing here?," he asks, slurring his words. The glass almost slips from his fingers but he manages to catch it with his other hand._

_"I just wanted to see you," she answers, crossing the room slowly, making sure to sway her hips just the right amount. "And give you this back." The moment she let the trophy grow back to its normal size, a pang of relief burst through her whole body, like a ball-chain finally being released. Stumbling slightly, she holds it up for Frank to look at. He only looks at her, though. Drunk-hazed eyes staring holes into her dress. "Y'look pretty, tonight. D'I buy that one for you?"_

_Laurel nods, putting the trophy back onto Frank's shelf, right over the couch. She takes the glass from him, downing what is left of the alcohol before putting that away, too. This is the first drop of alcohol she consumed tonight, she realizes. With all that drama and what had happened afterward, she couldn't even live that one night like a normal teenage girl. And she is sick and tired of it._

_Frank grabs her ass, squeezing hard. His head drops against Laurel's chest, as he takes in a deep breath. "Smell so good," he whispers, letting his callused hands slide under the fabric, searching for her panties._

_Laurel kisses the top of Frank's head. His AC is cranked up way too high, his hair damp with sweat from just sitting here. "Always."_

_Her hands are working on his zipper just as needy as his are tugging at her panties, pulling them down just enough to slip his cock inside of her._

_With a twitch of her finger Laurel closes the door, Frank too distracted with her mouth to notice, thrusting up hard._

_She feels full, and Frank's mouth is hot and sloppy against her neck, and at least in that moment, she isn't too far away from a normal prom experience._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts on the winter finale: what the fuck


	4. Chapter Two: Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading my fic! Just a friendly reminder that you don't need an AO3 Account in order to leave Kudos or Comments on a work you liked! I'm very happy about either. Enjoy!

They all decided to sleep on the idea of forming a Coven.

Connor's grandmother was the last witch in their bloodline, and thank the lords, she was a busy woman who kept very detailed journals about her escapades as an up-and-coming Coven leader. (In Connor's opinion a little too graphic and intricate details about some NSFW things that needn't be mentioned again). On the subjects of Covens she wrote, that no matter with whom one takes up that special bond, it will stay with the five people for life. Yes, the power that comes with it is unattainable by a lone-wolf witch, but like Uncle Ben keeps saying in all the Spider-Man reboots, there is some responsibility, and danger, that comes with it. Things one should consider before sealing the deal.

Connor couldn't sleep that night. The three of them were sat on his couch 'til dark, with Connor sitting crouched on the floor because two-thirds of the couch were taken up by notes and other scribbles. He kept eying Laurel, trying to crack the nut that was her person. Her magic was strong, he could feel as much, and she seemed reserved. But she liked tuna on her pizza so he figured she couldn't be too bad. Connor could imagine including her into the little pack he formed with Michaela. His partner in crime didn't object to that idea, Michaela was rather excited to have a girl... acquaintance that didn't particularly hate her for once. Adding two more people, though, felt weird to Connor. Intimate.

The digital clock on his nightstand read 2:21a.m. He turned over, sighing. A few street lamp lights burned bright enough to shine through the window but other than that there was not much. Stars were hidden by light pollution and most blinds in the opposite building were closed. _Grindr_ binged, but Connor let his phone stay on standby. Instead, he let his hand dangle from the bedside, fingers twitching. A few feathers from his pillow slowly rose to the ceiling, jumping up and down like puppets on strings. Connor let them hang over the buildings and if Connor squinted just enough, they almost looked like white clouds on a dark sky. He closed his eyes, then, knowing that the feathers will be there in the morning to greet him.

 

Next morning Connor did not over-sleep, which also meant he didn't have as much time to get ready as he did yesterday. Quickly, he threw on the things he had laid out for himself last night – a comfortable black sweater on some black skinny jeans -, he poured himself a fresh pot of coffee into a disposable cup and ran out the door.

The cold breeze caught Connor by surprise. He was late so often he almost forgot how could it could get when he was on time, and so he shivered, waiting for the light to turn green. This time he didn't take the other way to school. In fact, he wasn't planning on going near that bakery ever again. Not that sex with that guy wasn't great. Sure, he was a bit selfish but hey, sometimes even that can be hot, but as a wise lady from Connor's favorite Sherlock adaptation once said: _People don't treasure things anymore._ So that's what Connor was set out to do. He treasured the moment with Brodie to never touch him again. Why bother ruining a perfect hook-up with a disappointing sequel?

Michaela waited for Connor on the stairs to Middleton. She was just checking her minimalistic watch as he ran up to her. “Wow, you're not late. Call me impressed.”

“Don't expect this to be a regular occurrence”

The two of them walked up to the school building. It was still a bit dark, a sign of autumn being well on its way. Connor was glad. Summer was overrated, especially if you don't live close to the beach.

“So, are we really gonna do it?”

Connor looked at Michaela. Her lips were pursed together tightly, forming a straight line of dark red. She also had her eyeliner winged. Connor hummed, putting two and two together but trying to hide his smile. “Who's that for?”

She opened her mouth slightly, letting out a puff of air. “Don't change the subject,” she protested, walking just a bit faster now.

“ _You_ don't change the subject. Is Aiden coming over? I thought he was still on his school trip to Paris, or something.”  
“Rome.”

Connor scoffed. “Right, big difference. So, who's it for?”

“I'll answer mine if you answer yours.”

Michaela sat down in her seat. Connor squeezed his butt next to her book since Annalise wasn't there yet. It gave them some time to talk. “I think we should- I mean what's the harm? It's not like we have to see each other every single minute of the day after this.”

Connor didn't know when exactly he had set his mind on this but when he woke up this morning, he was pretty much sure of it. Especially if the others were half as skilled as Laurel.

Again, Michaela nodded in approval, turning her back to look at Wes Gibbins. He was scribbling something in his notebook, pen flying over the paper in rapid movements.

Laurel told them he was one of the people on her radar. There were others for sure, more experienced witches who know how to cover their tracks and ward themselves from tracking spells. Gibbins did not count to this group of people.

Connor didn't know much about Wes; the two of them shared only a few classes – AP bio, to name one – but they never talked much, partially because Connor avoided talking to Wes. Connor's image of Wes was mostly made up from the rumors he had heard during his time at Middleton, which were as followed: apparently Wes only got into Middleton through some special program, Wes' mother killed herself, though some people said he killed her (Connor didn't believe that, Wes looked too innocent for that. Then again, most people in those weird midnight crime specials do, too), and Wes' had a girlfriend. Eve Rothlo's foster kid, Rebecca. The two of them started dating halfway into freshman year and were somewhat insufferable. How the two of them made it work was beyond Connor. Opposites attract? Connor figured.

“So how do we do this?,” Michaela whispered to Connor. She glanced past her shoulder at Wes once again. He paid her no mind, still busy with his notes.

“Michaela, you won't get out of telling me who you're dressed up for _that_ easily. Besides,” Connor stood up to walk to his seat. Annalise was back from her trip to the coffee machine, now holding a steaming cup of joe in her hand. “I might have an idea.”

“Is there something interesting you'd want to share with the class, Mr. Walsh?”

Connor slumped back into his seat and opened the book on the last-marked page. “Nothing, Mrs. Keating,” he mumbled, pretending to leaf through the novel in search of something. He hated when she called him out like that and with his track-record of coming late, if at all, she did that a lot.

“Good. Back to Salem, then.”

*

Michaela stood in front of her locker, waiting. Break was almost over but there was still no sign of Levi anywhere. For a second she worried she might have overlooked him in the crowds of people. Not that that mattered. Of course it didn't. Maybe if she'd keep telling herself that she would believe it, too.

After two more excruciating minutes of waiting, she slammed her door shut, annoyed. Just in time to see Levi cut the corner and walk straight in her direction, for once not accompanied by his pack of acne-faced wolves. “Hello, _Michaela_.” He said in passing.

“Hey- hey!,” Michaela's shoes click-clacked over the floor as she tried to walk with him. “How do you know my name?”

Levi ran a hand through his own hair, looking down. “You kidding? Michaela Pratt, winner of various prizes, honor student with a perfect attendance record- by the way, shouldn't you be on your way to class? Don't want to mess up that record of yours.”  
Michaela puffed her cheeks, partially trying to stifle the groan of frustration that has been building up ever since Levi didn't bother to freaking stop and talk to her – and partially trying to hide her pride for being recognized. Even if that recognition was minced with some sarcasm. “Don't tell me where I should or shouldn't be, Levi Wescott.”

“Wescott-Rothlo, actually. I hyphenated after Eve adopted me this summer.”

Right, Michaela forgot that Eve Rothlo, their student counselor from L-Z seemed to pick up orphans left and right; kind of like their other school counselor Frank DeDelfino, though his specialty appeared to be picking up emotionally damaged girls with daddy issues.

“Have you heard that Asher's throwing a party?”

Michaela barked a laugh, “Heard of it? He was clogging up my feed with that info all damn week.”  
“Wouldn't know. Don't follow assholes. But there's free booze so I'm not gonna say no to that.”

“And you want to know if I'm going?” The look on Levi's face implied that he did indeed want to know. I just might.”

“Maybe we'll see each other then. By the way, you look nice today, ” Levi said, before slipping into a classroom that was on the other side of school from her own. Michaela didn't even get the chance to say it back- _if_ she wanted to, that is. Which, she told herself over and over again, she did not.

*

 

Ah, chemistry. The bane of Connor's existence Again, Kirk was trying to explain to the rest of class some overly complicated formula that, really, Connor could probably use in his studies and alchemy, but at that time he was preoccupied with other matters. Matters being, mulling over his plan as to how to convince Wes Gibbins to join their little witch club. Even Oliver didn't succeed to take his mind off of things. Not completely anyway.

“What did the scientist say when he found two isotopes of Helium?,” Oliver's whisper was already loaded with a smile. The boy was so close to Connor, he could feel his warm breath on his cheek, and maybe that was enough to prickle his skin, or make his heart skip a beat or two. Just maybe. And although a part of him wanted to turn his head to the right and _accidentally_ bump faces, he stayed put. “Huh?”

“Hehe.”

Connor did end up turning his face to Oliver, quizzically. And coincidentally, their noses did touch, and none of them recoiled, staying like that for a moment, Connor looking past Oliver's rimmed glasses into those brown eyes of his.

“Hehe,” Oliver repeated, leaving his lip hung open, teasing Connor with a glimpse of tongue.

“Fuck,” Connor breathed out, for a different reason than Oliver suspected.

Taking a look into his backpack, Connor said that exact same word again, “I think I forgot my book. Can I-?”

Oliver's nod was a bit too excited and left Connor with the slightest hint of a smile on his face for the rest of Kirk's snooze-fest. He even slid his chair a bit closer to Oliver's – just to get a better look at the book, obviously. The fact that he could also smell Oliver's conditioner or that he was able to watch the boy's neck and count the freckles on his neck? Accident. Total accident.

“Are you going to Asher's party?,” Connor suddenly found himself saying. Oliver didn't turn his head back, which for some reason disappointed Connor a bit.

Actually, Oliver chuckled, “Right, next you'll find me chugging beers with the football team. Who do you think I am, Connor?”

Fuck. Of course Oliver wouldn't want to hang out with people like Asher. Middleton never really got into the whole hazing and bullying cycle but some people just never mingled with others. To keep up the natural order of the US High School Experience _tm_ _,_ of course. “Pretty, for one. And you could come with. It'll be fun.”  
“Like- with you?” Oliver's head turned just slightly, enough for Connor to see how long that boys eyelashes actually were. It was amazing honestly, how full and luscious guy's lashes could be – it's like that was Gods way to pay them back for other hairtastrophes.

“Well, yes. Michaela will probably come, too. You know Michaela? Long black hair, mean walk, kind of glares at you all the tim-”  
“Girl from Art History. Of course I know her. Just text me when and where we want to meet.”

It suddenly dawned on Connor that he didn't have the other boy's number, but Oliver came prepared. Armed with a Sharpie he scribbled away on Connor's palm, and left him with a temporary tattoo of his number. The chatter of backpacks being zipped shut and chairs scratching over the awful linoleum floor announced the end of class but Connor relished every second Oliver's hand stayed draped over Connor's arm, his index finger covering one of the numbers, an eight maybe? When did this happen, Connor wondered. When did he fall for the boy in Chem class, because surely that was what was happening inside of him right now – the chemicals in his brain doing all kinds of wonky stuff to him, convincing him that this guy sitting only inches away from him whose finger is tracing circles over, yes, that was definitely an eight, was the right fit for him. Chemically anyway.

Connor was the first to pull away, though he desperately wanted not to. With his right hand on his satchel he looked back to Oliver one more time. The boy was fumbling with the zipper of his backpack, trying to play it cool. “So it's a date,” Connor said, walking out of class, only later realizing what he just said.

*

“Why don't you tell me how you feel today?”

That is the Frank Delfino's sentence of choice. Most councilors and therapists have those: 'How are we feeling today?', 'What's on your mind lately?', and so on and so forth. All of it trying to tickle out the same thing out of whatever miserable person was sitting across from them: their feelings and emotions, the sappy stuff that could ultimately help them understand their condition better and work through it. Thank God, in Frank's case, it was only the lead-up to their game of cat and mouse, a phrase that initiated whatever was going on between Laurel and him.

Mister Delfino – no, Frank, he told her to call him Frank back when they first started. Frank was sitting on his black leather couch, one leg crossed over the other, a notepad resting over his knee and a black pen rolling over the surface, untouched. The paper was mostly blank, with some pre-traced lines for notes. Occasionally he'd fill those out. Most of the time, Laurel's body was the only thing Frank wrote on, with his fingertips tracing whatever letter he was looking for right into her skin.

“I'm good,” Laurel answered, most of the time. She didn't feel good most of the time, and sometimes she admitted so. It would be suspicious not to. Though 'good' was her word of choice, just as 'Why don't you tell me how you feel today' was Frank's. Cat. Mouse. “I,” she started but stopped, looking at the possibilities; the flashes came and went, sometimes unnoticed, sometimes wracking havoc in her body, twisting up her insides. All _good._ “I made new friends.”

A flash of _something_ crossed his face, jealousy, maybe? Surprise. He scribbled something on those lines, filling them for once. As he looked up, Frank's usual tight-lipped smile was hiding behind that full-brown scruff of his, waiting. “If they are new, how do you know they are your friends?”

Laurel knew Frank was fishing for something, but she wouldn't bite that easily. Sometimes it's better to throw a rock into the pond to scare away the fish. “It's just a feeling.”  
“Are there more of those?”  
“Feelings or friends?,” Laurel teased, shifting in her seat. A strand of her hair fell from behind her ear and Frank didn't fail to notice. He shifted in his seat, too, though probably not from the same kind of discomfort.

“I was hoping both,” he said, spreading his legs in a more than suggestive way. The notepad was already slipping from his thigh, pen rolling into the crevice of couch and cushion.

So much to therapy, Laurel figured.

That's how their sessions usually went – they talked for a minute, Frank would get distracted or bored, or both, and Laurel would stand up like she did that day, and days after, making her way over to him. “Oh, I don't know, there's this one guy.”

“Oh yeah?” Frank's hands have already found the cusp of Laurel's ass, pulling her closer by the back pockets of her jeans. She spread his legs apart even farther, crawling her way on top of him, hands finding support in that vest-covered chest of his. He was breathing hard now, Laurel felt the lust radiating off of him in a wave of heat, and in some twisted part it intoxicated her, pulled her in.

“But he's a lot older than I am, so I'm not sure if we can be together.”

“So it's forbidden love,” Frank chuckled. The word 'forbidden' sounded like a promise; a confirmation on his side that though that might be the case, he wouldn't care much of the boundaries that sets on them.

Frank's scruff burned her neck, as he sucked on the soft skin under her chin, his plump lips working hard enough to leave a bruise, getting darker by the minute. Two more follow, just as obvious and public as the ones before, each mark a memory of Frank. The idea of wearing him on her skin like that repulsed Laurel, she wanted to push him away, stop him from leaving any more bruises, but she also wanted to fist his hair and hold him there, right there, where his tongue slid so softly over her neck and where each purple blotch was proof that she was in some part normal, and wanted, and that it meant her parents would finally give her a rest.

“But he's good to you, isn't he?,” Frank mumbles, lips brushing over the curve of her ear. The question made her mouth go dry because she knew the answer to it all along: it was no. Followed by a yes. Because as much as she hated him for manipulating his way into her life it was in part her own manipulation that got them to where they were, grinding their bodies against one another in the hope that they might connect – that by sliding his way into her, Frank would cross that bridge of trust and love and that by closing the gap between their chests Laurel could somehow forget Frank's age and profession. Sometimes, it almost worked.

This time, Laurel fumbled with shaky fingers, trying to free the condom from its plastic confines, and she managed to do that with some steadying hands of her lover. Together, they slid the condom over Frank's cock, only so Laurel could sink it into herself, allowing inch after inch to enter her, fill her up to fill something else completely. Although this might not have been the healthiest way of going about it, Frank didn't fail at his job, he did manage to make Laurel feel better, by letting her taste and feel and touch his body, by kissing her so hard and so deep she'd have to bite back the moans else they might get caught by a student passing by. And as she was riding him, their groans and cries of pleasure hidden behind the labeled door to 'Student Councilor – Frank Delfino', she kissed away every thought and every doubt she had, finding herself, for her.

*

The frog in front of Connor tried to jump erraticly, its behind moving with quick spurts but unable to move in its small cage. As inhumane as this practice was, Mrs. Anderson insisted on old methods and so here they were, twenty-or-so young adults, turning their sadistic fantasies into realities by cutting up a live frog to inspect its intestines. Trent from three rows back was definitely enjoying it a little too much, prodding that sickly-green thing in front of him with his scalpel. Write him up on the Connor 'No fuck list'.

At that time Connor was playing with the guy's little stomach – not his own frog's, he was not going to kill that fella, but he was also not going to pass up a chance for an A just because of his morals. Once again, Oliver came to his rescue, lending him a helping hand and offering to share a frog – how romantic. There was still some tension between the two, but Connor chose to ignore it and rolling miniature guts between your thumb and forefinger sure helped. “Morbid much,” Oliver eventually said and Connor let the stomach fall into the tray with a small thud. Little red creeks and rivers formed on the surface of Connor's white gloves, and so he focused on those, trying to pass the time once again. Everything to stop himself from either creepily staring at Oliver, trying to find out what the hell he was thinking or even worse, stare holes into the backs of Wes' and Rebecca's heads. The two of them sure enjoyed their dissection. If only Connor could hear what the two of them- wait, maybe he could.

There was this one spell in his Nana's journal she used to spy on her friends- or let's call it, listen in on the gossip, that was probably more appropriate. Who could blame her, from the tales and sexcapades she wrote about (again, way too vivid for Connor's taste) there was plenty to listen in on. Connor closed his eyes, trying to remember the incantation, five words, though one syllable off could fuck it all up. _Qui habet aures audiendi audi-_ right

“ _Qui habet aures audiendi audiat_ ”, Connor whispered and- his vision turned blurry, then everything went black and silent. A dead quiet leaving him alone with the wave of panic coming into the shore. Not even a screech or a hum was there to keep him company, as if he just blinked out of existence, but he didn't. Right? He wouldn't just disappear like tha- Rebecca's words burst through his head making him wince as small subtitles started to float above her and Wes' head. They washed away almost as quickly as they appeared but Connor managed to read them.

“ o u g o n n a d o i t ?”

“i d o n t w a n t t o p a s s u p t h e c h a n c e b u t i a l s o d o n t k n o w i f t h e y a r e t e l l i n g m e e v e r y t h i n g”

Connor was surprised that Wes knew about their plan. Did Laurel tell him something she forgot to share with them? If so, dick move.

“w a n t m e t o s t a y?”

“n o, i t s f i n e, y o u g o.”

“o k a y,” and just like that Rebecca went back to cutting up their frog. Connor wiped his glove on some spare cloth Anderson put them on each table, before he typed a text to Laurel asking her what the hell is up. He wasn't sure she'd answer but the three dots for 'typing' appeared instantly.

“ _i asked bonnie, maybe she told him we were coming?”_

“ _So bonnie is out?”_

“ _long story, tell you when we see each other”_

Connor put his phone back into his pocket with a sigh.

“Another guy flunked on you?” Oliver chuckled. This time he was the one playing with dead corpses, making the frog dance to his hummed version of 'Running man'. It made Connor smile his goofy 'what-the-hell-are-you-doing-you-dork' smile at Oliver.

“Morbid much,” he spit Oliver's words back at him. “Besides, I do _not_ get flunked on.”

“Maybe I will be your first in one thing after all,” Oliver said and winked like a smooth motherfucker- only to then drop the dead frog flat on the table, making the rest of the intestines fall out all over the table and on their clothes. If only Oliver knew that he was beginning to be the first in a whole different thing for Connor. Thank god Mr.Frog there burned that spark like a bridge before Connor got to cross it.

“What the hell are the two of you doing there?,” Anderson scolded them in her usual tone, “Connor, I hope you understand you will have to stay behind and clean up this mess. In fact, all of this mess, if you're already at it.”

“But I have cla-”  
“Thank you, Mr. Walsh.”

He was about to protest again when Wes raised his hand, “I'd gladly help Connor out, Mrs. Anderson.”  
The teacher squinted her eyes suspiciously, surprised by the sudden altruistic behaviour of her student, but she nodded in approval, “Very well, then, get to it when the class-” A ring rang through the air, announcing the end of the Night of the Living Dead Frogs.

“Eugh,” Wes winced, scratching some distorted part of frog #342 off of Trent's table, “I think I can scratch any crime scene cleaning jobs off of my potential jobs.” He was really trying to get the table to its original colour (white) but he mostly just failed (blush, at most). Connor, on the other hand, was scooping up all the intestines and dumping them into a plastic bag, and by scooping up he means using his magic to move the body parts over the surface without actually touching any of them again. It worked without Wes noticing. Not that that was important anymore, Connor remembered. But like with any other seduction, he wanted to ease into it.

“So, aren't you gonna ask me if I want to join your Coven?”

So much for easing into it. This was a head-first plunge into deep waters. As soon as Connor's lips moved even slightly, Wes started talking again. “Because my answer is yes. I'm intrigued. Not convinced.”  
Actually, Connor was glad he didn't have to play any games. Direct action sometimes works best. “What do you want to know?”  
“Show me something?”  
“Woah buddy, on our 3rd date maybe?” Wes' glare made it clear that maybe he wasn't a joker after all. “Okay, here you go.”

Connor made the content of his blue plastic bag fly out, piece after piece floating up into the air above them, slowly but surely reassembling the frog right in front of Wes' face. Connor's fingers were cramping up as he moved and twisted them in different directions, all the while keeping the focus on the frog, squeezing its little heart with his telekinesis, making it appear to beat again, if only for a few more seconds. Before his magic ran out though, he let the parts fall back into the bag, leaving Wes just as dumbfounded. The glint in his eye told Connor he was pretty much convinced _now_ but now he was also curious. “I showed you mine...”

Still a little amazed Wes understood what Connor was asking and so he set down his cloth and walked over to the front desk, where an untouched frog was splayed across the paper.

At first not much happened, except for Wes breaking a sweat maybe. With arms crossed over his chest and a little doubt at the back of his mind, Connor leaned back into his seat, watching, waiting- there was a crackle, a hint of magic and for a second he could swear the green amphibian jumped, or moved his leg at least. Wes eyes were almost bulging out of his skull, a vein showing on his neck but whatever he was doing it worked, the frog, though still mostly unmoving, croaked, once, twice, rolling down, down, down as if trying to move. It fell into a cardboard box at the bottom of the floor- and a nasty sound of flesh being ripped apart rang through the room with a splat, blood and guts hitting the ceiling in a square matching the box below. The only thing that immediately popped into Connor's mind were Ollie's words he repeated out loud, “Morbid much.”

Wes was breathing hard, steadying himself on the table, “It never really works,” he let out a long deep breath, “so well.”  
“It's still pretty cool,” Connor admitted, floating the bottle of disinfectant and a cloth up to the red square, wiping at it before it could dry.

“Yeah, right.”  
“I'm sure you can get better with some practice. You probably didn't have anyone to help you before did you?”

Little drops of blue cleaning product were hitting the table as the cloth scratch-scratch-scratched, foaming up the slates. “No, I mean yes, Rebecca, but she doesn't- she can't do what I can do.”

Good to know, Connor thought, but he said, “Not many people can do magic.” Connor noticed the way Wes straightened at the mention of that last word, “You know it's magic what we are using, right?”

Wes scratched the back of his neck, looking a little embarrassed. “I knew it was something special. I just wasn't sure...”  
“You totally thought you were an X-Men didn't you.”  
“I'm surprised you know what an X-Men is.”  
Two more cloths were flying through the room now, wiping and washing and getting rid of the things that would take them twenty minutes in two. “So do you want to get stronger? Learn? There are three more of us so far and you need-”  
“Five, Bonnie told me.”

That mystery was solved quickly.

“Whatever you decide on, just let us know. There's a number,” Connor pointed to the chalkboard right as the white piece of chalk hit the floor; his number was scribbled on there, barely readable but still better than his first few attempts. He checked his watch: class was already twenty minutes in, but maybe Johnny at the library was up to some archeological discoveries right about now. It would be nice to blow off some steam, with everything that's been on his mind lately: the court date, the real date with Oliver (it totally was a date), the ritual, if there ever would be one.

Bonnie Winterbottom scurried past him in the hallway, not even bothering to looking at him; Connor shrugged it off, walking past the councilor’s office – Frank Delfino. As hot as that piece of meat was, Connor was graced with L-Z, Eve. Their bi-weekly sessions were a treat, but sadly neither of them found the other enticing, in both looks and gender. Or age, quite frankly. (Who was Connor kidding, guys Eve's age were not a problem for him.)

Just as he was about to turn to the corner leading to the library he heard the door to the office being opened and curiosity got the better of him, so he turned around, waiting to see what fellow screw-up was about to leave the Fuckman Kingdom-

It was somewhat surprising to find out that the familiar-looking brown-haired girl that was leaving the office a little too quietly was Laurel. Then again, it made perfect sense. And although her clairvoyance failed her more often than not, he didn't bother with running away or hiding. “Hey,” Connor whispered in her direction – he wasn't sure why exactly he whispered but it felt natural in this kind of situation. Still, there was no one except the two of them in the halls. “Laurel.”  
She mouthed a word similar to 'fuck', as she tip-toed her way to him. “Connor, don't you even dare.” Her sweater was on backwards, and there was a very distracting string of hair sticking in the wrong direction. Connor fought the urge to flatten it, instead letting his mouth drop into a knowing _O._ “I knew it.”  
“Great, then maybe you are the clairvoyant one, can we- ?” she motioned in the general direction of- wherever Frank's office wasn't. “Please don't judge me, my parents cover that for the next five future ex's I will have.”  
Connor raised his arms in defense, trying to stifle a chuckle. For some reason this revelation made him giddier than a child in a candy store. Johnny was long forgotten by now, turning into one of the fossils in the archeology section. “It's a judge-free zone here. _You_ should know that. In fact, you probably already know more about my recent... affairs than I'm comfortable with.”

“It's not like I planned it.”  
“My sex thing or your _sex_ thing?”

“Both.”  
“Well, doesn't mean I don't want to hear all about yours.”

*

“I want to hear all about it, Bonnie.”  
Bonnie was sinking back into the comfortable chair-cushions as much as she could but the wooden back stopped her from going any further. Annalise, Mrs. Keating, was a force staring down at her. The air cracked with her magic, suffocating Bonnie, both metaphorically and in some way literally.

“I don't know anything more, I just- Laurel asked me if I wanted to join their Coven and I said no because- well you know.”

Bonnie remembered the blue flames, the ice-cold heat as they licked their way up her sides- she squeezed her eyes shut, blocking it all out, closing herself off. “Bonnie, _focus._ ”

“Right, yes. I told Wes. Warned him.”  
“You _what_?”

Bonnie tried to stop her voice from shaking but she failed. She just couldn't stop. Not ever when it came to Annalise, even though she was the one who did this to her, she was also the one who saved her. Bonnie was simply trying to repay her debt, not that she could ever call it square. “I only wanted to warn him before he'd fall head-over-heels into all this mess. You know perfectly what a Coven can do.”

The glare Annalise shot Bonnie in return made it clear that the girl overstepped, but Annalise didn't say anything about it. They both had their fair share of things they wanted to forget, after all. “I want you to tell him that he can't do it, I won't risk it. Eve's girl has fallen harder for him and he does make her happy, I just- I don't want to do that to Eve.”  
Bonnie knew that in some part Annalise just didn't want to do it to Wes, or herself. If anything, her guilt was eating away at her, gnawing at that part of Annalise's memory, just as those blue flames were engulfing Bonnie's memory, trying to get back to her, remind her. “I will do that,” she said, getting ready to leave.

“And Bonnie?”

The girl turned around, her blond pony falling over her left eye.

“Don't mess it up.”

*

“I think the barista messed up my order again,” Michaela complained, scooting past Connor into the booth. The three of them skipped their last class to meet up in a small cafe near Middleton High. By small Michaela thought class room sized, with round tables placed sporadically all over, and a baby-blue counter in the far-off corner. An older woman was typing something into the cash register not paying them any attention.

Laurel was sitting across from Connor and Michaela, stirring cream into her coffee, pouring until the glass was full. She looked – out of touch, if those were the right words; distracted, her phone always close by. When Michaela joined Connor and her, the two of them immediately stopped talking about whatever they were talking just before they saw Michaela coming. That was fine. If there was something they didn't want to tell her, Michaela was totally fine with that. Mostly.

“So,” Michaela started, looking from Connor to Laurel, and then back to Connor. There was something up with him, too. That grin plastered all-over his face could only mean two things: he either got laid _or_ he was about to get laid in the not-too-far-off future. “is he coming or not?”

“Oh, right,” Connor put down his cup, his hands shaking a little as he stuffed them away in his pockets. That boy and his caffeine-intake, Michaela mused. “I gave him my number.”  
“I'm pretty sure he's taken.”  
Connor shot Michaela _the look_. “Ha-ha, very funny. Anyway, I'm sure he will call.”  
“Eighty per-cent sure,” Laurel mumbled, dropping her spoon into the cup again. “I'm eighty per-cent sure he will call. There's something I can't quite make out, a hazy feeling, like a word at the tip of your tongue that you can't quite remember.”  
Michaela hated that feeling.

“Don't worry, we will find someone. There's always Bonnie, right?”  
“About that,” Laurel met Connor's gaze. “I felt her magic but it were only the remains.”  
Michaela furrowed her brows. How could that be? “Remains?”  
“It felt off the first time it popped up on my radar, more like a hex than a source. She didn't want to tell me exactly what that was, but she said that even if she could join our Coven, she wouldn't. 'Bad things happen when witches get together.'” At the look on Connor's and Michaela's faces, Laurel added, “Her words, not mine. Either way,o we are back to four. Three if Wes says no.”

Connor groaned inwardly, letting his head fall back against nothing. Michaela learned to read his body language perfectly, almost like a twin, but no one needed to be an expert in Connor in that moment to realize that he was defeated. “So our only chance at this thing, besides Wes is-”  
“Asher,” Laurel and Connor said at the same time, both sounding as pleased about it as someone who was just forced to do a group project with a fellow student they hate. Only in their case, the project's due date was death.

“Check your phone again,” Michaela told Connor, and the boy did. From the corner of her eye she could see some new messages, the green notification right there on the screen, but from the looks of it it wasn't Wes. If he could just hurry up...

*

Wes was rushing past trees, and people, turning left on the next corner, with a spring in his step, the wheels of his bike turning even faster than usually.

The key to Annalise's and Eve's house was burning a hole in his pocket but still he was too scared to use it, the home he was practically living at for the past six months still feeling alien to him. So he knocked, waiting for someone to open. It took a while for Rebecca to walk down the stairs, as always, but again, Eve beat her to it. The school councilor wore turf-green oven mitts and a stained apron hung from her neck. There was some backing soda on her face, too, but Wes didn't mention it. Instead he smiled, “Hey, Ms. Rothlo.”  
“Wes, how many times have I told you to call me Eve,” she reminded him, stepping aside to welcome him in.

Wes mumbled a quick sorry and squeezed past her to the stairs, taking them by the two. He couldn't wait to tell Rebecca what had just happened in the class room and hash this whole thing out with her. His excitement was so big he almost ran into Mrs. Keating, his principal barely managing to step aside. “What the _hell_ are you doing, Wes?”

“Sorry, Mrs. Keating.”  
“Do I really need to tell you not to run in the halls when I'm off-duty?”  
“Sorry, Mrs. Keating,” he said again, barging into Rebecca's room with no warning.

His girlfriend was sitting on her bed, CD cases and all sorts of papers scattered all around her, a minefield of crunchy sheets and candy wraps. “Bec,” Wes said, trying to find a spot on the bed he could climb onto without disrupting her orderly chaos. There was music blasting from her headphones, even Wes could understand the lyrics, something from Green Day, maybe? “Rebecca!”

Rebecca jerked up, ripping her headphones off her head, “Wes,” her face lit up at the sight of him. “What's up.”

As Rebecca pushed some of the things to the floor, making room for Wes, he told her what's up – or rather what was up in the air, flying around like it was nothing. The bed frame creaked under his weight as he sat down to tell her about Connor. When he mentioned Bonnie and her cryptic warning, Rebecca closed her laptop shut to give her boyfriend all of her attention. They talked about everything they knew so far – which was mostly late-night research sessions on web-forums, a.k.a. it was all more or less useless. “And I guess if I do join them I will finally learn more about all of this.”

Rebecca's legs were crossed and covered with her favourite, yellow pillow. Her lips were puckered as she thought about what Wes should do. “You can back out at any time, right?”  
“Before we do this whole ritual thing? Yes, I think. Bonnie only warned me about everything _after_ forming a Coven. Nothing about before.”

“Well then I'd say you should do it.”

Wes leaned over to kiss Rebecca on her mouth, softly. His lips barely touched hers, but it was enough to make them both shiver. With their foreheads pressed against one another, Wes was breathing her air, watching as her eyes moved under her closed eyelids. “As long as you stay safe, Wes...”  
“I will,” he whispered. “I promise.”  
“I just don't want to lose you.”  
Like Wes lost his mother. To this day he saw her laying there, her limbs barely attached to her body, hanging down like fruit from a tree. There was so much blood on the floor, pooling out of the apartment into the hallway. Wes couldn't scream then, but he did for years following. “I think my mom was a witch,” Wes admitted, his voice breaking on the last word.

Rebecca didn't open her eyes but her she held her breath at the mention of Wes' mother. He rarely talked about her and maybe Rebecca was scared that if she wouldn't choose her next words correctly she'd scare Wes away. Wes wanted to kiss her so badly, but he continued, “I think that's the reason she died, and if not that then at least because of magic. I knew there was something off, I just never-”

“Then that's only more reason to do it, isn't it? To find out what happened. To find out if you even can find out what happened.”

Wes phone buzzed in his lap. Talk of the Devil, it was an Unknown number but the message made it clear who it was from.

a _re you in?_

Wes typed in a _yes_ and hesitated, thumb hovering over the button. It was Rebecca who pressed sent, and only after the message was out there did Wes let out a breath he didn't even realize he had been holding.

“It's on.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for any mistakes or inconsistancies; it's lowkey hard to edit/write/and do all the other stuff without a beta reader, but I hope you still enjoy it. I literally can't wait for HTGAWM to come back, though the finale was more or less... shitty, if you don't mind me saying. Anyway, 'til the next chapter!


	5. Chapter Three: After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading my fic! Just a friendly reminder that you don't need an AO3 Account in order to leave Kudos or Comments on a work you liked! I'm very happy about either. Enjoy!

“ _I found it!,” Michaela calls out, raising her hand triumphantly. Her cheeks burn from the cold but she can't stop smiling. She found the watch. It's silver band glints in the light of the magic orbs, shining right into Connor's eyes, making him squint. The handle stopped ticking; the watch as dead as its owner. His body, on the other hand, hasn't found its peace just yet. Apparently Wes and Connor just finished up de-composing Sam's body, the blob of skin, bone and everything in-between still laying there. That is all that is left of him; a pile of leftover atoms, a gray substance of nothing where there was a living, breathing human being only hours ago. Michaela can barely catch her breath as she watches Wes twist a knot into the canvas, hiding Sam away behind a layer of cloth. “What are we supposed to do with him?,” she asks, clutching onto Sam's watch for dear life, too scared she might drop it again. “Do we-” Michaela started, but her mind draws a blank. There is nothing reasonable they could do._

“ _We have to throw him away,” Wes says, staring at nothing in particular, his gaze meeting the forest's eye._

“ _You can't just throw him /away/,” Michaela gasps in protest. Despite the coat on her shoulders, a shiver ran over her back._

“ _Do you have a better idea? The school hired some firm to clean up the building after the prom is over.” Michaela has made that call herself, just last Wednesday. “At this point, it is nearly impossible to see this as a body, much less identify it as one. And even if that happens, they won't be able to trace it back to us.” Wes is right. The reasonable part of Michaela's brain knows as much, but everything else inside of her screams for her not to do it. But what other choice do they have?_

_She looks around, as if the woods might give her an answer, but there's nothing. Out there, Laurel is probably in the building already, putting back the trophy; the other kids are on the field, and if they don't hurry up they might soon find themselves amidst the party. Everyone knows the woods are a popular hook-up place for everyone drunk and desperate enough. Out there, time is fleeting, but in here, the trees make it seem like it stands still, unmoving. Just like the three of them, the trees are trapped, between their leaves and branches, their roots tying them down to the soil. At this point Michaela longs for her dream more than ever: to just get out of here, once and for all. “You're right,” she agrees._

_That's when Connor lets out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a wail, his body shaking as he huddles to the ground. “Wes is right,” he's breathing hard, and in that moment Michaela feels bad she took his coat from him. “It will work- it has to work, because if it doesn't we will all- and I can't-”_

_Michaela sits down next to Connor, spreading the coat as a blanket to soften the ground for them. Connor's sobs shake through her, as she wraps her arms around him in a desperate attempt to calm him down. Strands of her hair stick to his damp forehead. It hurts her to see him like this. It all seemed to finally fit into place, the picture almost complete, and for what? Only to find out that there are puzzle pieces missing? That all that time working on getting better was a waste? No. Screw that. Michaela is not going to give up that easily. “Connor,” she whispers to him, “Connor we need to get up.” Wes is already gone, the bag with Sam in it, too. “We need to get to the bonfire if we want all of this to work.”_

_With a little help from her magic she is able to pick Connor up, his arm draped over her shoulder for support._

_That's when the first people run past the two, a group of teenagers blasting 'Chasing Waterfalls' through their phone, their glow sticks and flashlights only a blur. Michaela waves the orbs of light away, leaving Connor and her in total darkness, as the sound of every other party rang on, getting closer and closer. A branch not too far away from them snaps in two, and both Michaela and Connor snap their heads in its general direction. “Connor?”_

_After that it all happens so quickly: Connor jams his face into Michaela's, pressing her up against the tree he got sick on, their mouths crashing together; it's not soft at all, it's loud and desperate, the sounds coming from Connor's lips more sobs than anything else. His body is on Michaela, covering her whole. As if this night wasn't weird enough, Michaela thinks, moving her lips like a dead fish, until she can't handle it any longer. She pushes him off. The boy stumbles, almost trips over his own feet. “What is wrong with you?” Michaela wipes at her mouth with the top of her palm, trying to get rid of the taste. Connor isn't looking at her, though. He's looking the other way, from where they first heard it crunch._

_It's only a whisper, but Michaela hears him say, “Ollie..” before he breaks down again. That is, if she would let him. But Michaela doesn't. It's not fair. He doesn't get to slip away. Not now that they are alone. Michaela doesn't want to be alone._

_She stuffs Sam's watch into her bra and picks Connor up again._

_The closer they get to the edge of the woods, the tighter the knot in Michaela's stomach. Once she's out of the forest, fate will decide if all of them find out of the woods. One last time, she checks for any signs of blood or Sam on her clothes – there's nothing there._

_Now close to the fire, Michaela could barely stand the heat, a part of her missing the cold embrace of the woods. The school mascot was already long gone, the flame eating away at the rest of the wood. With Connor hanging on to her, Michaela snapped a picture and put it on her story, making sure to add a time stamp. That's it. She is done. The rest is up to Wes, and Michaela. And fate._

_For once, she let's loose, dropping to the ground. There are other people, passed out next to them or on their way to it, a perfect way to blend in for now. If only for just a second._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my tumblr ( dogphood.tumblr.com) or twitter @khoshek. Prompts are welcome and encouraged


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